The days leading to Clarice and Tyrell's wedding unfolded like a tapestry woven from harvest gold and family warmth, each thread pulling the Tenebrae household tighter together. Gone was a dedicated chapel or grand hall for worship and ceremonies—no stone spires reaching for the heavens, no polished pews echoing with hymns. Instead, the family transformed the wide meadow behind their compound into a makeshift sanctuary, erecting a vast chapel tent from billowing white canvas salvaged from old trade wagons and enchanted by Cindy and Roselda to shimmer like fresh snow under the sun. The air hummed with the scent of cut pine as Byrt and the brothers—Roland, Chris, Tom, Sam, Harold, Jeffrey, and Matthew—hammered sturdy poles into the earth, the rhythmic thud of mallets mingling with the crisp autumn breeze that carried hints of ripening apples and drying hay from the nearby fields.
Byrt wiped sweat from his brow, his callused hands gripping the ropes as he and Stanley Levithoro—Tyrell's father, broad-shouldered and soot-streaked from his forge—pulled the canvas taut. "Steady now, lads," Byrt called, his voice deep and commanding yet laced with joy. "We don't want the gods thinking we're slouching on Clarice's big day."
Roland, muscles honed from months of battles, heaved a beam into place. "Father, this tent's bigger than AshenVale's gates. You planning to host the whole town?"
Chris laughed, tying off a guyline with a sailor's knot. "Better than the wilds—least here the only ambushes are from the twins."
As if summoned, Belfin and Ophelia darted from the bushes, their small hands clutching buckets of enchanted glitter—courtesy of Roselda's minor spells—that sparkled like captured starlight. With mischievous grins, they flung handfuls at the brothers, turning the air into a swirling cascade of iridescent dust that clung to sweat-damp shirts and hair. "Wedding sparkles!" Ophelia squealed, her laughter like tinkling bells.
Matthew, the youngest brother, sputtered as glitter dusted his face. "You little demons! That's for the decorations, not us!"
Belfin dodged a playful swipe from Tom. "We're helping! Now you all look like fairy knights!"
Cindy emerged from the house, wiping flour from her hands—fresh pies baking in the oven, their cinnamon-sweet aroma wafting out like an invitation. She scooped up the twins, planting kisses on their cheeks. "Enough pranks for now, my loves. Save some magic for the real fun."
The girls—Clarice, Roselda, Eden, Landina, and Elizabeth—worked nearby, stringing garlands of harvest blooms: vibrant orange pumpkins hollowed into lanterns, crimson apples threaded on vines, and black roses enchanted to bloom eternally. Clarice, her cheeks flushed with excitement, held up a swath of silk. "What do you think, sisters? This for the altar drapes? Or should we add the harpy feathers the boys brought?"
Roselda tilted her head, fingers sparking with magic as she wove a subtle glow into the fabric. "Feathers for the edges—exotic, like a warrior's veil. Tyrell'll love it."
Eden giggled, pinning a rose. "Blue ribbons too—for luck, like the mine's glow."
Landina nodded eagerly. "And spells to make it shimmer when they kiss!"
Elizabeth, the quietest, smiled shyly. "It'll be perfect. Clarice, you'll look like a queen."
Evenings brought stories around the hearth, the fire crackling with pine logs that filled the room with smoky warmth. The brothers, fresh from their southern trials, spun tales for the wide-eyed younger ones—exaggerated just enough to thrill without terrifying. Roland leaned forward, voice low and dramatic: "There we were, shields locked, when thirty harpies dove like thunderbolts from the sky—talons like daggers, wings blotting the sun!"
Chris jumped in, gesturing wildly. "But Matthew here—our little hero—split the first one clean in half with a single swing! Feathers everywhere, like a snowstorm in summer!"
Tom added, "And the lizardmen? Hordes of them, scales tough as iron. But we charged, arrows flying—mine took down five in one volley, straight through their eyes!"
Sam grinned. "Exaggerated? Maybe a bit. But the cores we harvested? Glowing like trapped stars—enough magic to light the whole wedding."
Harold and Jeffrey demonstrated minor wards, sparks dancing from their fingers. "We wove protections that turned their poison darts to dust."
The twins bounced in place. "Tell about the big one! The boss lizard!"
Matthew obliged, puffing his chest. "Oh, it was massive—twice Father's size! But I tricked it with a feint, and boom—down it went!"
Byrt chuckled from his chair, Cindy on his lap. "Tall tales, lads. But proud of you all the same."
Clarice beamed. "My warriors. Tyrell'll hear every word."
Then—boom!—the day arrived, a crisp harvest morning where the sun painted the world in gold and amber, leaves crunching underfoot like whispered blessings. The chapel tent stood resplendent, canvas glowing under Cindy's spells, garlands draping the entrance in cascades of black roses, blue ribbons, and iridescent harpy feathers that caught the light like jewels. Inside, benches of fresh-hewn pine were lined with cushions sewn by the girls, the altar a simple oak table adorned with enchanted candles that flickered without smoke, filling the air with vanilla and spice.
The family dressed in their finest. The girls were visions: Clarice breathtaking in her gown of flowing white silk embroidered with black-sun crests and subtle blue wards, the harpy feathers woven into a veil that trailed like wings, her blue eyes radiant under a crown of black roses. Roselda shone in emerald green, elegant and poised; Eden in sunny yellow, playful ruffles dancing; Landina in soft lavender, delicate lace at her cuffs; Elizabeth in pale pink, a flower crown perched on her curls. The twins, in matching blue tunics, fidgeted with barely contained glee.
The boys cut handsome figures: Roland tall and commanding in a tailored black coat with silver buttons; Chris roguish in deep red, a feather pinned to his lapel; Tom sleek in forest green, bow slung casually over his shoulder; Sam sturdy in earth-brown, belt heavy with a trophy core; Harold and Jeffrey in midnight blue, runes embroidered on their sleeves; Matthew boyish but proud in gray, his sword polished to a mirror shine.
Byrt, in his best vest of dark wool with the family crest, stood tall but misty-eyed. Cindy, beside him in a gown of sapphire silk that hugged her figure, dabbed at her tears with a lace handkerchief.
At the Levithoro side, Stanley beamed in forged finery—a vest etched with hammer motifs—while Tyrell waited at the altar, nervous sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air. His suit was masterwork: black leather trimmed with iron runes, a cloak pinned with a mithrilite brooch that hummed faintly. "She's coming," Stanley whispered, clapping his son's shoulder. "Breathe, lad. You've forged tougher things than vows."
The ceremony began with a hush. Music floated from a lute played by a neighbor—soft, melodic strains that evoked blooming fields and enduring love. Byrt walked Clarice down the aisle, his arm steady but his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "My girl," he whispered, voice thick. "From the day you were born—twin to Roland, fierce as any warrior—you've been our light. Tyrell, you court her with honor, forge with skill. Treat her as the queen she is, or answer to her brothers—and me." Laughter rippled; tears followed.
The priest intoned vows, simple and heartfelt. "Do you, Tyrell Levithoro, take Clarice Tenebrae…"
"I do," Tyrell said, voice steady but eyes locked on hers, filled with awe.
"And you, Clarice…"
"I do," she replied, radiant.
Cindy and Stanley's wives wept openly, handkerchiefs fluttering like doves.
Then the speeches: Byrt first, voice booming yet choked, tears now streaming freely down his weathered cheeks. "Clarice… my firstborn daughter, my fierce heart… from the moment you opened those eyes—blue as your mother's, sharp as a blade—you've been the light that chased every shadow from this house. You've grown into a woman of grace and strength, one who mends with magic and loves with fire. Tyrell, lad… you've earned her hand through honor and sweat, forging not just metal but a bond true as steel. Cherish her, protect her, as I have these twenty years. She's my joy… my pride…" His voice broke, shoulders shaking as he wiped his eyes, the tent silent but for soft sobs.
Stanley stepped up, his own eyes misting, voice rough with emotion as tears tracked down his soot-lined face. "Byrt, you've raised a daughter who's more than a match for any forge—fierce, beautiful, unyielding. Tyrell, my son… you've hammered your path true, from boy to man, and now to husband. Clarice, you bring fire to our forge, warmth to our hearth. May your union be as strong as mithrilite, as enduring as the anvil that's seen generations. I… I couldn't ask for better." He choked up, pulling Byrt into a bear hug, the two fathers sharing tearful nods amid applause.
As vows sealed with a kiss, the twins struck: from the tent's rafters, they released a cascade of enchanted flower petals—mixed with harmless glowing butterflies that fluttered about, landing on noses and hair. "Surprise!" Belfin yelped. Laughter erupted; even the priest chuckled.
The reception spilled into the meadow: tables groaned under harvest feasts—the savory sizzle of roast venison glazed with honey and herbs, its juices bubbling and caramelizing over open flames, filling the air with a rich, smoky aroma that made mouths water from afar. Pies burst with tart apple and cinnamon fillings, their flaky crusts golden and crisp, steam rising in fragrant wisps that carried notes of nutmeg and clove. Fresh bread, warm from stone ovens, slathered in creamy butter that melted on contact, its yeasty scent mingling with the hoppy tang of ale flowing from barrels—frothy heads spilling over tankards with a satisfying fizz. Vegetables roasted to perfection—carrots glazed in maple, beets earthy and sweet—crunched under teeth, while cheeses aged in the family cellar offered sharp, creamy bites that paired with crisp crackers dusted in herbs. The air thrummed with the clink of mugs, the pop of corks from cider bottles, and the sizzle of sausages on grills, all underscored by the earthy undertone of trampled grass and woodsmoke from the bonfires.
Music swelled—fiddles and lutes dancing jigs. The family whirled: brothers partnering sisters, Byrt spinning Cindy under the stars, Stanley and his wife clapping along. Pranks continued lightly—the twins enchanting goblets to bubble over with harmless foam, eliciting giggles without chaos. Stories flowed anew, toasts raised, tears of joy mingling with laughter.
As night fell, lanterns enchanted to float like fireflies illuminated couples swaying, the air sweet with lingering pie and floral scents. Clarice and Tyrell slipped away amid cheers, the family lingering in the glow—hearts full, bonds unbreakable, the harvest moon witnessing a union forged in love and legacy.